


Beaten to the Punch

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Future Fic, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Original Characters Being Jerks, School Reunion, Smoking, Team Chunnel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: Stiles wants to spend his ten-year high school reunion talking to Danny and watching former classmates brawl. He'll get one of those things.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [mikkimouse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkimouse/pseuds/mikkimouse) for the TW timeline assist, because that shit is seriously confusing.
> 
> Several of the pack's text conversations are lifted almost verbatim my conversations with [the_wordbutler](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler) and [Perpetual Motion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion) during my recent HS reunion. Mine didn't end anything like Stiles and Danny's did, but these two fine humans kept me entertained and encouraged punch-spiking throughout the night. Thanks!

**Group MMS: Beacon Hills Pack of '13  
** **Saturday, August 12, 2023  
** **8:16 PM PST**

 **ME:** danny where are you?  
**ME:** guys where's danny?  
**ME:** why is there no danny?  
**ME:** lyds you promised me danny

 **CATWOMAN:** hah  
**CATWOMAN:** batman has zero chill

 **POSSIBLY ACTUAL BATMAN:** Batman has *negative* chill.

 **DR. FIELDS MEDAL I PRESUME:** Relax, Stiles. He's on his way. I promise.

 

**8:28 PM PST**

**ME:** bored  
**ME:** SOOOO BOOORED

 **CATWOMAN:** for real stiles  
**CATWOMAN:** boyd & i are riGHT HERE

 **ME:** and you are both UTTERLY delightful  
**ME:** BUT i talk to you p. much every day  
**ME:** wasn't the point of coming to reunion to talk to new ppl?

 **LIZARD BREATH:** the pt of reunion is 2c who got old & fat & miserable

 **ME:** shut up jackson you didn't even graduate from here

 **LIZARD BREATH:** neither did allison or isaac

 **ME:** yeah but i LIKE allison  
**ME:** and isaac's marginally entertainign

 **SCARFNADO:** thanks dude

 **POSSIBLY ACTUAL BATMAN:** If you wanted new people then maybe you shouldn't have sat with Erica and me. Just saying.

 **ME:** but u're the only ppl here i LIKE  
**ME:** look  
**ME:** i'm not shopping for new bffs here

 **ALPHA1:** glad 2 hear it bro

 **ME:** but i've been here over an hour  & not ONE fight  
**ME:** is it too much to ask?  
**ME:** (scottie shut up you're supposed to be changing diapers)

 **POSSIBLY ACTUAL BATMAN:** You want someone to brawl?

 **ME:** ideally yes!  
**ME:** but i'd settle for someone storming up to someone else and shouting YOU RUINED MY LIFE!!!

 **LIZARD BREATH:** christ ur still so weird

 **DR. FIELDS MEDAL I PRESUME** : Hmmm…  
**DR.** **FIELDS MEDAL I PRESUME** : Open bar?

 **CATWOMAN:** cash  
**CATWOMAN:** lousy cheapskates

 **DR. FIELDS MEDAL I PRESUME** : That's the problem. Everyone's too sober for fighting.

 **SCARFNADO:** spike the punch!

 **ME:** there's no punch

* * *

The Beacon City Country Club isn't exactly world-class. But it's big, and rental is relatively inexpensive for members. Which Jackson apparently is. Even though he lives in _London_.

Once he's parked, Danny gets out of the car, squares his shoulders, and walks purposefully toward the entrance. A bit closer to the door, he stops with a sigh. Magic can keep that Jeep running, but it can't keep everyone from realizing that it _shouldn't_ be running anymore. He remembers so many narrow escapes their senior year that were made even narrower by Roscoe's failure to turn over at the crucial moment, or its tendency to bellow smoke when they _really_ needed a clear line of sight. Stiles had even called Deaton in at one point to make sure the Jeep wasn't possessed, or that it hadn't developed sentience ("If it did, it _hates_ you," Erica had said with a killer grin). But Deaton had assured them that it was a cranky old car forced to live far beyond its time. Stiles had spent five minutes stroking the hood and crooning at it that the mean man hadn't meant what he said, and that he wouldn't let anyone euthanize her. The memory is… weirdly fond.

There are restrooms right inside the country club door. Danny ducks into one to make sure he's properly put together. He tidies his hair, smooths a few wrinkles out of his teal dress shirt, and adjusts the fall of his black dress pants. Jackson and Isaac helped him pick out these pants. They assure him that when properly adjusted, they make his ass look like it was carved by Michelangelo. And they've just come back from a trip to Rome, so Danny's inclined to believe them.

Danny leaves the bathroom and walks up the long lobby toward the banquet room. A couple people nod or say "Hey" to him as they pass, and he recognizes them all. Their class was large, but not huge, and he was one of the popular kids; he had at least a nodding acquaintance with everyone—but so far it's no one he was really close to.

Actually, he wasn't _really_ close to many people at all. Three of the closest live on another continent now. The others—well. Three of them are inside this room somewhere. Including the only one he actually came here to see. He's honest enough to admit that to himself. He pulls his phone out to text the pack group chat and let them know he's finally here.

" _Danny_!!!"

Danny sighs and puts his phone away. Justine and Kate, the women staffing the sign-in table, and also two thirds of the reunion planning committee, had been extremely popular in high school. Justine was on the student council; Kate had led the speech and debate team to the state championship three years running; between the two of them, they had known everyone in their class. They'd _liked_ everyone, too; Danny absolutely believes the sincerity of their enthusiastic greetings. They're just... a bit much. He makes himself smile and keep his attention on them, instead of looking for the pack. "Good evening, ladies," he says smoothly.

Kate fans herself. "Still a charmer," she says, throwing him a wink.

Justine elbows her and hands Danny his nametag. "Welcome. We're glad you could make it. Food and bar over there—" She points to her left. "—Georgie desperately trying to get people to dance back there—" A gesture behind. "Smokers' haven on the back deck."

"And watch the slideshow," Kate adds. "Georgie and I worked hard on it."

Justine rolls her eyes. "It's ridiculous," she says. "But there are a couple good pictures of you in it!" Danny has no idea _how_ ; he'd read Kate and Georgie's repeated pleas for photos from their high school years and ignored them all.

But that's future Danny's concern. Present Danny only has two goals: get a drink; find Stiles. Preferably in that order, but he's willing to be flexible.

 

* * *

 

**8:41 PM PST**

**CATWOMAN:** omg is that elly craig?

 **LIZARD BREATH:** o holy wtf

 **FOXY:** I thought she'd moved to NYC or something?

 **CATWOMAN:** well idk about that but she's def here

 **SCARFNADO:** She hated us SO MUCH

 **POSSIBLY ACTUAL BATMAN:** Still does, if the look she gave us is anything to go by.

 **CATWOMAN:** meOW!

 **ALLY A SAVES THE DAY:** To be fair, we DID try to push her mother through a portal to the underworld.

 **ME:** HER MOTHER IS AN UNDERWORLD DEMON, ALLY. I DON'T SEE WHAT WAS SO WRONG IN WANTIGN HER TO GO BACK THERE.

 **FOXY:** It wasn't her, Stiles! She wasn't the one we were after.

 **MOWGLI:** still a demon

 **ME:** SEE? THANK YOU, Malia.

 **ALPHA1:** dude

 **ME:** well i'm sorry scottie  
**ME:** i'm feeling very pissy tonight

 **CATWOMAN:** danny's still not here

 **ME:** yes THANK YOU erica  
**ME:** this is stupid

 **ALPHA1:** swear jar

 **FOXY:** swear jar

 **CATWOMAN:** SWEAR JAR HAHAH!!!

 **ME:** you are all the actual fucking worst

 **POSSIBLY ACTUAL BATMAN:** swear jar

 **ME:** screw this i need a cig

 **ALPHA1** : what the hell stiles you quit?

 **ALLY A SAVES THE DAY:** your best friend has asthma!

 **ME:** correction!  
**ME:** my best friend HAD asthma  
**ME:**  now he's a ww  
**ME:** who could prob smoke like 3 packs/day  
**ME:** with no worse effects than kira saying he tastes like ashtray

 **FOXY:** it's true. smokers taste like ashtray

 **ME:** and i might add that scott isn't even here tonight

 **LIZARD BREATH:** still seems like a dick move stilinski

 **ME:** correction  
**ME:** i need a cig and a VERY stiff drink

 **CATWOMAN:** lol  
**CATWOMAN:** but seriously smoking is gross

 

* * *

Danny's journey to the bar has been excessively slow. Everyone he sees wants to squeal at him and hug him and tell him about their lives and ask him about his. His plan had been to have a drink in hand and be at the pack's table in under ten minutes. He's been here for fifteen and hasn't reached the bar. He'll be lucky if he sees the others within his first hour.

He's been trying to text the group the whole time, to let them know he's here. It wouldn't take much— a quick second to say _I'm here; getting a drink_.

And who knows, Stiles might even come hang out with him while he tries to navigate the crowds. He did that their senior year. Danny was in pep band and would go to the same seedy convenience store for the same slushie after every home basketball game, because only that one had the alleged blackberry flavor. At some point midseason, Stiles had just… shown up one night on Danny's walk over, and for the rest of the year he'd been at Danny's side every time. Even when he hadn't been at the game.

But every time he pulls his phone out of his pocket, another classmate descends on him, demanding hugs and life updates. Scott, Stiles, and Derek had made them practice sending emergency texts when they can't see their phones, but it's one thing to unlock the phone and type _S-O-S_ without looking and another to type, _i'm here and stuck at the bar, someone come keep me company._ So he stands in the creeping line and chats idly with people he'd hung out with but never really known, unable to even tell the only people who've ever actually known him that he's arrived.

"Danny!"

Danny sags in relief at the familiar voice. He starts to turn, snark back, _anything_ , when the guy he's talking to—Ty, a football player Danny'd only known because Ty's brother used to date Lydia's sister—says, "Oh, shit, it's Stilinski. Pretend you didn't hear him, dude."

Danny's eyebrows spring up so fast his head hurts a little. He moves a fraction of an inch away from Ty—the crowd around the bar is so dense he can't go far, but he thinks his point gets across. "Why would I want to ignore Stiles?"

Ty rolls his eyes. "Come on, man. The kid was a loser in high school, and he's a loser now. He still lives with his _dad_."

Danny stares at him. "We're _millennials_ , Ty. Like, a quarter of us live with our parents. And actually, Stiles moved out last year. Lives in one of those super-swank lofts over in the old industrial section." He wonders what his eyes look like, because they  _feel_ hard to him. Dangerous. "He's also one of the least 'losery' people from this class. Or did you miss the part where he was our salutatorian and then summa cum laude at Stanford, all while—" Danny stops and swallows.

The problem with talking up the pack is that their greatest accomplishments have to go forever unspoken. He can't remind Ty that Stiles was salutatorian while literally fighting for his life the last two and a half years of high school. He can't brag that Stiles earned summa cum laude while undergoing extensive and intensive magical training to become Scott's emissary. This is a  _huge_ part of what makes Stiles remarkable to Danny, and Danny can't mention any of it.

"Look," Ty says, "I'm just saying the kid's always been _weird_. I mean, okay, not _always_. Just, like, since his mom fucked off or whatever—"

"Whoa, wait, stop." Danny holds up both hands and hopes to hell Stiles is getting hung up the same way he had, because he doesn't remember the last time he wanted anything as badly as he wants Stiles not to hear this conversation. "Is that what you think happened to Stiles' mom? Is that what _people_ think happened to Stiles' mom?"

Ty shrugs. He looks a little guilty and a lot mulish. "Wouldn't you? If you got stuck with _that_ kid and a husband who never came home?"

Danny sees red. Actual red tingeing his vision. He grabs a pen from his pocket and a business card from his wallet and scribbles " _CLAUDIA NOWITSKA_ " on the back of the card, writing so hard his pen nib tears a little at the cardstock. He shoves the card at Ty. "That was her name. Next time you want to run your mouth about things you don't know jack shit about, take ten seconds to run a fucking Google search first." He starts to turn away, pauses, and says, "If just her name doesn't get you anything useful, try adding 'obituary.'" He turns on his heel and storms up to Stiles. He's been here twenty minutes. He's eaten nothing, hasn't had a drink, hasn't had a chance to talk to the people he wanted to see. He could not possibly give less of a damn. "Let's get out of here," he says without preamble.

Stiles looks _great._ His hair's getting long again, which Danny's always secretly preferred. He's wearing a soft-looking cream button-down with a dark pink pinstripe over a T-shirt of the same color. His khaki slacks may actually have been ironed in the recent past, and his bright pink Chucks look brand new, like they came out of the box today. Danny wonders if Stiles is making a statement. He knows Stiles regrets that waiting until college to come out as bi robbed him of the chance to make a splashy announcement in the halls of BHHS.

Best of all, he looks like he's actually remembering to eat and sleep again, no longer worryingly gaunt with deep, dark circles under his eyes.

Stiles blinks. "Danny! Hi! You made it. We'd started to worry. I was going to grab a drink and go smoke."

"Don't bother with the drink," Danny says, grabbing Stiles' wrist and tugging him along on his path back toward the door. "The line's taking forever."

"But alcohol!" Stiles protests.

"Your liver will thank you."

"But my brain will be angry!"

Danny snorts. They're almost to the door. He's not sure what his face looks like right now, but it clearly promises death and destruction to anyone who gets in his way, because it took him almost ten minutes to navigate this foyer on his way in, and _no one_ bothers them this time.

"Hey. Hey!" Stiles calls. "Fragile human here."

Danny snorts again. "Me too!" he calls over his shoulder. He just needs _out_ of this building.

"Christ, I wish I could see your expression," Stiles says. "I'm starting to suspect you're taking me outside to murder me."

Danny's hand squeezes reflexively around Stiles', and he only really notices when Stiles gasps. "Sorry," Danny says, but instead of letting go, he lets up the pressure and slides his hand up so his fingers interlace with Stiles'.

Stiles gasps again, but there's a different quality to it. "Danny—"

"Just keep walking, Stiles," Danny grits out. He leads them through the front door and across the drive where people pick up and drop off for valet parking. They're silent until they reach the grass-covered verge that separates that drive from the parking lot. There's a bench, huge, ornate wrought iron, and Danny drops into it with a furious grunt, scattering gravel in a wholly unnecessary and deeply satisfying way as he goes.

Stiles stands beside the bench for a second, studying Danny, and he tries not to fidget. Derek and Scott can talk about enhanced werewolf senses, and Lydia can joke about her Special Sight. Stiles' senses have always seemed sharpest to Danny. Stiles has always seemed to see the deepest, darkest, most hidden parts of Danny. Now is no exception. Danny feels flayed open, completely bare under Stiles' gaze. He feels no urge to turn away from that gaze or hide himself. For the first time, Danny turns _toward_ Stiles' gaze and hopes he can see everything Danny doesn't even know about himself.

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath. His hand lifts, fingers slightly, and his index finger traces down Danny's cheek. "Danny…" His voice shakes, and he lets it trail off.

"Give me a cigarette," Danny grumbles, suddenly self-conscious.

Stiles sits and fumbles an unopened pack out of his shirt pocket. He fishes out two cigarettes, hands one to Danny, and puts away the pack. American Spirits. Their friends will be pissed, and they'll hack up a lung each, but they'll do it in style.

They look at the cigarettes in their hands. They look at each other. They start laughing so hard they have to lean into each other to stay upright.

"I quit three years ago," Stiles gasps. "I got out of the habit."

Danny shakes his head. "I was a social smoker, and not at all since Lydia moved to Paris. I never got _in_ the habit." They grin. "So you hauled me out here to smoke, but you don't have a lighter."

"You know," Stiles muses, tapping his cigarette against his lips, "I saw a porno that starts like this."

Danny snorts and leans harder against Stiles. "You've seen a porno that starts like everything."

Stiles laughs. "Yeah, I have." He shoves at Danny until Danny's off of him and then pops to his feet. He holds out his hand. "Come on. Up."

"What are we doing?" Danny asks.

"The only thing _to_ do," Stiles says.

With no small measure of trepidation, Danny takes the offered hand and lets Stiles pull him to his feet. He gets way too much momentum going and ends up smashed against Stiles' chest, face inches away. He watches Stiles' pupils dilate and his mouth fall open. Danny's blood thrums in his veins, and Stiles is _vibrating_ with—

Danny stops. He's very well trained in examining his emotions and naming what they are. That's not _just_ anticipation and arousal making his blood sing through his body. He's still feeling _anger_ , anger that's creating a staticky white-out in his mind. He reluctantly drops his gaze and steps back. He's wanted Stiles for too long to start anything in anger.

Stiles looks disappointed but understanding, and Danny isn't sure why. He couldn't have heard what Ty said, and he doesn't know what Danny's thinking. Danny should tell him, but if he breaks this moment any more than it is, he thinks it'll be broken irreparably. Later, when he's feeling less homicidal, maybe he'll be able to talk about it.

He keeps hold of Stiles' hand as Stiles leads him to the Jeep. He laughs as they climb inside and pull the doors shut behind them. "One of these days, you're going to have to get a new car. Unless you want everyone in town to know you do magic?" He rubs the glove compartment fondly. "There's literally no other way this car could've survived all these years, and sooner or later everyone's going to realize that."

Stiles chuckles as he pushes in the lighter. "People see what they want to see. The rest they either ignore or explain away somehow. So." Stiles twists in his seat to face Danny. His left leg's on the floor, his right pulled up against the seat-back. "Last ten years of your life— _go_."

Danny turns as well, leaning against the closed door. "You're an asshole."

Stiles waves his hand. "Old news. Seriously, man, we haven't seen you in a _year_. What gives?"

"Some of you have seen me," Danny hedges.

Stiles gives him an unimpressed glare. "Team Chunnel. You went all the way to fucking Europe, but you couldn't make the drive up from San Francisco? Weak."

Danny clenches his teeth and looks away. "How could I have been sure of my welcome?"

Stiles huffs. "For the hundredth time, Danny, Derek isn't mad at you. You saved his life. And he damned well knows it."

"I _used_ him. I became one more in a line of people who used his body without his permission."

"Look." Stiles sighs, and his fingertips touch, briefly, against the side of Danny's forearm before pulling away. "He was upset when he found out what happened. But when we walked him through it, it became _staggeringly obvious_ that you had done literally the only thing there was to do to save him from that spell. He forgave you. Like, _instantly_. And he's spent the last year waiting for you to show the fuck up so he can thank you in person." He bites his lip; Danny sees it out of the corner of his eye and tries not to groan. "We all have."

Danny swallows, and his throat is so dry. "So you can thank me for saving Derek?"

"Among other things." Stiles says it so quietly Danny's not sure he was supposed to hear. He's still not looking at Stiles, and he gets the feeling that Stiles isn't looking at him, either. The lighter pops up, and Danny has never been so ridiculously grateful for the strange timing of inanimate objects.

Stiles pulls the lighter from its holder and lights his cigarette. Then he leans forward hesitantly, gesturing toward Danny. What Danny _should_ do is take the lighter and use it on his cigarette. What he _does_ is lean forward, fingers bracing the cigarette, silently asking Stiles to light it for him. Possibly an asshole move, but a classic.

Stiles' fingers only shake a little as he brings the lighter toward Danny. He's silent, all of his immense concentration on getting that glowing red circle where it needs to go.

When the cigarette is lit, Stiles returns the lighter to its holder and sits back with a shaky sigh. He runs his free hand over his face and takes a deep drag off his cigarette, turning his head to blow smoke out his open window. "How is Team Chunnel, anyway?"

Danny smiles and takes a drag. It hits his throat and lungs hot and hard, reminding him of _exactly_ why he doesn't do this anymore. He manages not to cough, but it's a close thing. "Doing pretty well," he says. "Lydia and Allison's new kitchen looks great. Lydia's got a good eye for this stuff."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Lydia doesn't cook."

"Not a ton? But her coworkers at PSE drive her up the wall, and remodeling the house is one of the few things she has control over."

"Huh." Stiles gives him a sharp look. "She tell you that, or are you just that insightful?"

Danny pinks slightly and makes a big production out of exhaling smoke out the open window so Stiles can't see whatever his face is doing.

Stiles laughs softly. "Okay, got it. Your secret's safe with me," he says. Danny knows it is. Knows it's not just secrets, either: he just feels _safe_ with Stiles.

"You meet any of the French hunters?"

Danny groans. "I'd been hoping Allison was exaggerating how pretentious and condescending they were, but if anything she's _undersold_ it. They're _awful_. Won't listen to what she has to say about the new Code because 'America, she is so young.'"

Stiles blinks. "She's 29. How long are we waiting?"

Danny shakes his head. "Not _the American. America_. The French hunting families have outhouses older than the U.S.'s oldest settlements, so they think every idea that comes from here is immature. One of the family heads told Allison to come back in fifty years and they'd talk."

"Oh, Jesus." Stiles exhales sharply, smoke curling around his nose like an irate dragon, and Danny gets caught in the image. They're used to Stiles being one of the normal ones. Sure, he has magic, but he only uses it in dire emergency. The rest of the time he's just... Stiles. This otherworldly image of him rocks something in Danny.

A pinched expression crosses Stiles' face, mercifully wrecking the dragon illusion, and Danny's mouth turns up, because sure he knows what's coming. "How's— _ugh_ —how's Jackson? I mean, he acted like it was just a scratch, but the way Isaac was panicking, I got the feeling he'd downplayed it. Like usual."

Danny ashes out the window to give his fingers a second to stop shaking. Jackson _is_ fine, but it'd been hard to watch one of the most important people in his life—and one he thinks of as practically indestructible—wince around his flat for a week, healing so slowly it was barely perceptible. "It was gruesome," he admits. "Vampires have _talons_. I didn't know that, did you? Some sort of compensatory supernatural bullshit because they're technically dead and their fingernails don't grow. I also didn't know that vampire talon scratches take a _fucking_ long time to heal, even for a werewolf."

Stiles shudders. "Vampires," he mutters. Danny assumes he's thinking of their missed five-year reunion.

"Mainly they're both pissed that they have to get involved. They're not part of any of the London packs, so they were trying to stay out of this whole werewolf/vampire showdown. But now that a vampire's attacked Jackson, the local packs are pressuring them to jump into the fray." He laughs, remembering the scrunched-up look on Isaac's face after one of the alphas left the flat. "And they're doing it by stomping around and yelling about England's majesty, like they don't remember that Jackson and Isaac are American."

Stiles chuckles. "And respond poorly to stomping."

"That, too." There's a paper straw wrapper in the cup holder in front of Danny. He pulls it out and twists it between his fingers, curling and uncurling. "How's Derek?"

"He's great. I promise." Stiles speaks earnestly, seemingly fully aware he's walking them into a minefield. "Cora's coming up for Christmas, so he's going to host. They're both bringing _friends_." His eyebrows do their ridiculous wiggling thing that he thinks mean something but just makes his face look twitchy. He waits, and when Danny shrugs and spreads his fingers, he huffs, "I think they're _dating_. Like—eew, not each other, but—dating. Their friends are _special friends_."

Danny snorts and stretches the wrapper taut. "How do you figure?"

"You would've had to see his face when he said it. The blushing. And the nose scrunching. It was adorable. Only problem is, we have _no idea_ who it is, and I don't know how much longer Scottie can take the suspense. The wolves swear they don't smell anyone new on Derek. So either he's way better at masking scents than we give him credit for, or he and Jordan have finally gotten their shit together."

Danny's eyebrows go up. "Parrish?"

Stiles nods. "The way they dance around each other was cute at first. Now it's been six months, and we just want to smoosh their faces together and yell, 'Now kiss!'" He snorts. "But, wouldn't you know, between Derek 'I don't deserve nice things' Hale and Jordan 'I'm just here to protect your tree' Parrish, relationship conversations aren't immediately forthcoming."

Danny grins, but weakly. The ash is dangerously long again, and he takes a second to flick it and choose his words. "That doesn't... bother you? That he might be dating someone?"

Stiles throws his hands in the air and then swears when flakes of hot ash fall on his shirt. "Why does everyone think I'm in love with Derek Hale?"

Danny rolls his eyes. "Because you were kind of in love with Derek Hale?"

"I was _not_ , _Jesus_. I had a _crush_. Same as with Lydia. Same as with—" He breaks off abruptly.

"That... wasn't quite the same," Danny says quietly, staring at his hands. His cigarette is almost gone, and he doesn't think he's put it to his mouth more than a half-dozen times.

"No," Stiles concedes with an air of defeat. "Not the same. At all."

Danny looks up and finds Stiles watching him. There's no judgment, barely even curiosity. It's just Stiles' usual gaze. But it feels heavy. Weighted. Something sizzles in it—a potential, a _possibility_ that pulls an answering spark in Danny. He can't catch a breath. He grinds his cigarette out in the ashtray. "Get us out of here, Stiles," he says, and Jesus Christ is that his voice? That low, raspy, _desperate_ sound? He's made noises during _actual sex_ that sounded less erotic.

If Stiles' answering groan is anything to go by, he's hit his mark, anyway. Stiles puts out his cigarette, leans forward, grabs Danny's shirt, and yanks.

Their mouths come together too hard, too fast, the edge of Stiles' front teeth banging into Danny's lip. Danny huffs, pulls back, changes the angle. Stiles groans low in the back of his throat, and Danny's breath rushes out of him.

 _Finally_.

Danny pulls away, reluctant but determined. "Drive," he rasps.

"Your car—"

"I'll get it in the morning."

Stiles swallows. He puts his hands on the steering wheel but doesn't move. Danny waits. He knows that look on Stiles' face, knows without a shadow of a doubt that they both want this, but Stiles sometimes needs a minute to get out of his own head, out of his own way. Things are going on in there that Danny can't begin to fathom, and he has _just_ enough patience to let Stiles sort them out.

For a split second he misses the old Stiles—high school, pre-werewolves—who would blurt out whatever was on his mind regardless of whether anyone cared or if it was relevant to the discussion. Because when he starts the car, puts it in reverse, and backs smoothly out of the parking spot, Danny _really_ wishes he knew what Stiles had been thinking about and what he'd decided. Well, if it's any of his business, Stiles will share it eventually. If it's not, they'll deal with that, too.

At the exit from the parking lot, Stiles looks left and then right and then smiles sheepishly. "Where are we going?"

Danny laughs sharply. "Better be your place, because I'm staying with my parents."

Stiles makes a high-pitched whining sound that Danny thinks may be involuntary. "But my place is so _far_ ," he whines.

Danny takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. _Okay_ , he thinks, _cards on the table time_. "Stiles," he says quietly, and waits for Stiles to look at him. "I've waited almost six years. I can wait out the drive to Beacon Hills."

Stiles' eyes widen enormously, and suddenly he's throwing the Jeep back into park and scrabbling at Danny's shirt to reel him in for another kiss. This one's hot and messy and a little desperate. When Stiles pulls back with an audible pop, his lips look red and swollen, and it's all Danny can do to stay on his side of the car. Stiles looks at him for a second like he can't believe Danny's real, and then he turns right, toward the highway and Beacon Hills.

" _Fuck_ ," he mutters before they've even turned off the country club road. "Text the pack. They thought I was going for a drink and a cigarette and coming right back."

Danny smirks as he works his phone out of his pants pocket. "Don't plan on coming right back?"

Stiles shoots him a look that's three parts heat and two parts defiance. "Don't plan on coming back _at all_."

Danny swallows.

Danny last had a chance to look at the group chat before he reached the country club. The last few minutes have seen an increase in texts wondering where Stiles is and if he's okay. Danny scrolls back to see what was going on earlier. For the most part it's Stiles complaining about being bored and wondering where Danny is. Danny feels a fizzy sensation in his chest when he reads that, especially when Boyd jokes about Stiles having "negative chill."

Knowing he'll get teased about this until the day he _dies_ , Danny takes a deep breath and starts typing.

 **ME:** Hey.

 **ERICA:** danny! you made it!  
**ERICA:** wait did you make it? i don't c u

 **ME:** Yeah, I ... was here. Now I'm leaving.

 **ERICA:** what?!?!?

 **BOYD:** man you didn't even say hello  
**BOYD:** party foul

 **ME:** I know. I'm sorry.  
**ME:** I'm in town until Tues. I promise we'll see each other.  
**ME:** It's just  
**ME:** …

 **ERICA:** just what?

 **LYDIA:** OH!  
**LYDIA:** Did you find Stiles?

 **ME:** Well, Stiles found me. But yeah.

 **ERICA:** and now you're leAVING?  
**ERICA:** WITH STILES?!?!?!?

 **KIRA:** O M G ! ! ! !

 **JACKSON:** daniel why

 **SCOTT:** because stiles makes him happy don't be a dick

 **ME:** Thank you, Scott, but I've got this one.  
**ME:** He makes me happy, Jackson. Don't be a dick.

 **ISAAC:** HAH!

 **ALLISON:** Happy for you both! ＼(^o^)／

 **SCOTT:** seriously dudes congrats  
**SCOTT:** have fun

 **ERICA:** be safe! lol

 **SCOTT:** o yea dude ur both human use condoms! ヾ(✿⌒ ‿ ⌒✿)彡

 **ME:** I hate you all.

 

Danny closes the text window and puts his phone back in his pocket with a grumble.

Stiles glances over, a sympathetic crease forming between his eyes. "Trouble?"

Danny shakes his head. "Just—our pack being itself. I just got an Alpha McCall safe sex talk."

"'You're human, use condoms'?" Stiles grins. "That safe sex talk?"

Danny laughs. "That's the one."

"I'm already looking forward to the twins' teen years," Stiles says brightly.

The rest of the ride back to Beacon Hills is mostly silent, filled with delicious tension. Danny keeps his hand high on Stiles' thigh. He's not trying to rile Stiles up, just remind him that they're here together, that Danny's not going anywhere. From the way Stiles drops his hand to cover Danny's at every stop light, Danny assumes the sentiment is appreciated—and shared.

Stiles lives in Derek's building. Which is one of the funniest things about their lives. Danny never would've pictured Stiles living someplace like this—too sleek and industrial. Danny imagined Stiles in one of the older apartment buildings in town, something more lived-in, so Stiles could wreak havoc without worrying that he was _actually_ wreaking havoc. And yet, despite the exposed pipes and brick walls and dramatic windows, Stiles' loft manages to be _homey_ in a way that Derek's, one floor up, isn't. It reminds Danny of Stiles' dorm room at Stanford, and his bedroom at the sheriff and Melissa's house. Just with a little more class.

Danny has just enough time to think all of this before Stiles is sliding the heavy door shut and crowding Danny against it. His usually cold hands feel like superheated brands against Danny's hips. Stiles' mouth is in constant motion, kissing along Danny's jawline and down his neck, sucking what promises to be a _wicked_ hickey above his collarbone. Danny groans and lets his head fall back against the door as fire rages through him. He tries to get in the game, to do more than let his hands flex uselessly at Stiles' waist, but Stiles is a tornado, and he never stops long enough for Danny to hold onto.

When Stiles starts to sink to his knees, Danny has just enough presence of mind left to catch him and haul him up. They're pretty well equally matched in strength these days; with Danny's days of organized athletics mostly behind him, both of their main exercise comes from morning jogs and frantic survival sprints. And Stiles has always been much stronger than his wiry frame would suggest. Danny has a brief flash of how well they're going to compliment each other in bed now, and, Christ, he was half-hard the whole drive home, three-quarters once Stiles started kissing him, and now he is _ready_. So fucking ready that every second of delay is killing him.

But tonight is different. Different from his usual pick-ups, different even from a first date that's going well. Because this is _Stiles_. Stiles is _pack_ , and if they screw this up, there's going to be a lot more than hurt pride to deal with come morning.

Stiles whines, and Danny almost gives in and lets him go where he was obviously headed. "Why stop?" Stiles demands. "No stop."

"Stiles—"

"Danny, I have _so many fantasies_ about this scenario. Me, you, door, blowjob. It is quite literally the _only reason_ I have a door mat."

Danny looks down and, sure enough, a wide mat sits in front of the door. At first he thinks it's just a rich royal blue that goes well with the rest of the décor. Then he looks closer and sees the subtle pattern of dog paw prints in slightly lighter blue. He snorts. "You're all class, Stilinski."

Stiles grins. "So if you'll excuse me, I have work to do—" He pales, and his eyes widen. "Unless—god, I'm sorry, I didn't ask if you wanted—"

Danny grips Stiles' arms with bruising force. "I _want_. _Believe_ me, I want. But I just—we're not in any hurry, are we?" He slides one hand up Stiles' arm until it rests against Stiles' neck. Stiles' eyes flutter closed for a second as he leans into the touch. "We have time."

The instant Stiles opens his eyes, Danny knows he's made the right choice. There's something clearer in Stiles' expression, something hopeful. He moves in for a kiss, and Danny opens up for him, tongue sliding against tongue, lips meeting and parting and meeting again, slower now, igniting Danny from his core.

The fact is, neither of them can know what happens after tonight. Their lives are stable now, but they're hardly normal. This could be their only shot at this. So by god Danny will make it _matter_.

Danny loses track of time. He's barely aware of himself. There's only bodies together, fitting so well, lip against lip, tongue against tongue, hands roaming, stroking, squeezing, learning. He's vaguely aware that he's making sounds that ought to embarrass him but don't, because it's _Stiles_ pulling them out of him, Stiles who's seen a lot of the worst Danny can be and is here anyway, Stiles who makes Danny feel alive and dangerous and completely safe all at once. Stiles who's making a lot of his own noises, which Danny drinks down greedily.

The kisses speeds up, grows frantic and messy. Stiles' noises sound more desperate, like pleas, and it's been years since Danny could say no when Stiles begged. Danny pulls away. "I—" He clears his throat. "You said something about a fantasy of yours?"

Stiles grins, fast and wicked. "Oh, yes, I did." He steps back and strips out of his shirt, and Danny whimpers, because _he'd_ wanted to do that, but he's not about to make Stiles put it back on, now that he can look like he's wanted for years.

Like queer athletes all over the country, Danny has a strict "no look" policy in locker rooms. He's seen Stiles shirtless more times than he can count, but he's never _seen_ Stiles shirtless. Now that he can, it's heady. The muscles no one expects under his layers of flannel and sarcasm. The smooth, pale skin with its light dusting of brown hair. The pink nipples, looking flushed. The moles that pop up here and there like a wandering map toward the thicker, darker trail of hair leading toward Stiles' waistband. Danny's mouth floods with saliva, and he wants to get his lips and tongue and teeth all over Stiles, paint him with marks that'll last for _days_. But Stiles stays out of reach, smirking knowingly, as he slinks to the ground in front of Danny, his eyes all but _glowing_ in the apartment's soft light.

Oh, actually—

"Stiles," Danny whispers, awed, "your eyes." He reaches out a none too steady hand and touches his fingertips to the skin beside Stiles' eyes.

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, steadying himself. "Sorry. They—sometimes when I get really—well. A lot of things."

Danny smiles. "No need to stop it on my account. I like knowing I have that effect on you."

Stiles opens his eyes, still glowing a soft gold. "Danny-boy," he says, punched-out, and he's always been the only person who's ever been able to call Danny that without Danny wanting to smack them, "you have _no idea_ the effect you have on me."

Danny slides his hand back and threads his fingers securely in Stiles' hair. He bends over and whispers, "Show me."

Stiles groans. He's a blur of motion, hands scrabbling at Danny's belt, then at his pants. He shoves the slacks down but leaves Danny's boxer briefs in place—"Metal door. Worst idea ever. _So cold_ ," he mutters. Danny's vision blurs. When was the last time he felt so cared for? During sex? Possibly never.

Stiles gently but eagerly eases Danny's dick out of the slit in his underwear. Stiles' hands—how are Stiles' hands so warm? "Stiles, are you magicking your hands?"

Stiles shrugs and strokes Danny lazily. "They're really cold. You don't want them on your dick, trust me."

Danny wants to argue. _Will_ argue later, if there's a later. He wants Stiles as he is and doesn't want him wasting magical energy on warming his hands for this. But now isn't the time, so he just nods and motions with his other hand for Stiles to continue before letting it rest on Stiles' shoulder.

Stiles leans in, pressing his nose at the join of Danny's leg and—oh, fuck—inhales.

Danny laughs brokenly. "Those wolves are a bad influence on you," he grits out.

Stiles grins and drags his nose up Danny's dick, which Danny would've thought would be weird but which his dick turns out to be _way_ into. When Stiles reaches the tip, he sucks it into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it, and Danny's brain shorts out. He's nothing but sensation now—Stiles mouth hot and wet, licking and sucking almost at random along his dick, leaving wet patches to cool with a delicious shiver in his wake. His hair is soft and a little tacky between Danny's fingers, the weight of his skull at once so grounding and so fragile under his palm. He can just barely feel the cold of the door radiating against his back and the back of his legs, and the mat is soft and yielding beneath where his pants pool around his ankles.

"Stiles," he begs, "Stiles, _please_ —" Well, what the hell did he _expect_ , other than that Stiles would make a pleased sound in the back of his throat, wrap a hand around the base of Danny's dick, and sink his mouth down to meet it? Danny gasps and leans against the door for balance, but he keeps his head tilted, strange angle be damned, so he can watch Stiles' head as it bobs and the flex of his shoulders as he works Danny to distraction.

Stiles sucks and licks, and his hand keeps up the rhythm in counterpoint. His other hand comes to Danny's hip to stabilize himself, and his fingers slip under the hem of Danny's shirt to squeeze and stroke at his skin. Danny's breath is coming hard and fast, and a cascade of sound falls out of his mouth—groans, sighs, curses, pleas, and always "Stiles Stiles _Stiles_." He uses his hold on Stiles' head to move him, not to control, but to suggest—more here, less there, softer, less, harder, more, and every time he does Stiles makes the most _gratifying_ sounds and does as instructed.

Danny's fingers twitch, and Stiles freezes. When Danny tugs, Stiles pulls off. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and Danny almost loses it on the spot. The gold glow is just fading from Stiles' eyes, and Danny already misses it. Stiles looks up at him, waiting, while he finds his voice.

"I am _so close_ ," he finally manages to rasp out. "And we didn't say—"

Stiles grins, wide and wicked, and gestures at his face and bare chest. "Right here," he growls.

And, _god_ , Danny wants that. Wants it with an almost primal ferocity that takes him by surprise. He manages to nod and is pretty proud that he had that much coordination in him.

Stiles' mouth closes around Danny again, and Danny groans as the vibration of it shoots through his body. One of Stiles' hands goes back around the root of Danny's dick, and the other drifts down to roll Danny's balls gently. Danny's head thunks against the door, and he has absolutely _no_ control over the noises coming out of his mouth. He is _beyond_ close.

Danny feels his balls start to tighten a fraction of a second before Stiles does. Stiles pulls his mouth away but keeps his hand in place, holding Danny's dick still as Danny yells and comes, striping Stiles' face and chest. Danny's whole body tingles, his focus narrowed to the sensation of release and the way Stiles' hand curls around him.

When the last of Danny's orgasm shudders out of him, he drops to his knees on the mat and kisses Stiles, hot and wet and _filthy_. One hand wraps around Stiles' bicep to hold them both upright; one dips frantically to his chest, wiping at the mess, rubbing it into Stiles' skin. He's barely aware that he's doing it, only knows that he wants Stiles to walk into tomorrow's pack meeting _marked_. He wants everyone to know what they've been up to.

Stiles seems very on board with this, judging by the way he arches into Danny's touch. Danny's high off his orgasm and the taste of himself on Stiles' tongue. He barely knows what he's thinking, let alone what his body's doing, but when Stiles shoves his hand down his own pants (how is he still wearing pants?) Danny reaches down, grabs his wrist, and grunts, "No. Me," like some sort of goddamned caveman. He undoes Stiles' fly, which gives him just enough room to turn his wrist at a slightly less awkward angle and work Stiles' dick hard and fast, glorying in the smooth heat of him. Stiles grips his shoulders and grunts, and Danny catches as much as he can when Stiles comes. He carefully removes his hand from Stiles' pants and wipes it unceremoniously on Stiles' discarded T-shirt.

"Asshole," Stiles mutters affectionately. They kneel there, panting and and shaking, for a long moment, before Stiles slowly collapses sideways onto the mat, pulling Danny with him.

Danny clasps Stiles' nearer hand with both of his own. "Is it rude of to say you're way better than you were last time?"

Stiles half-heartedly smacks Danny's hip. "Last time I was _eighteen._ You were the first guy I'd ever had sex with, and the second person full stop. It would be ruder if you _didn't_ say it."

Danny chuckles. They lie for a moment, buzzing and content. Something feels settled between them that has been restless for too long.

Still, Stiles is Stiles, so it's a relatively short moment, and then Stiles starts drumming the fingers of his free hand against Danny's thigh. Danny's always had a weakness for Stiles' hands. Freshman year of college Stiles had briefly joined a punk band; Danny's sleep had been restless and feverish for days after he first saw Stiles twirl a set of drumsticks around his fingers. Danny feels the change in the air between them and speaks fast before Stiles has time to fill it with whatever wild tangent's popped into his mind. "Can I stay? Tonight?"

Stiles stills. Danny rolls over to face him. Stiles is looking at him with a surprisingly serious expression, given that Danny hadn't thought it was that serious a question. "That depends."

"On what?"

"Your intentions."

Danny blinks. His stomach gets that feeling it always does when he hasn't noticed that he's reached the edge of the sidewalk. "My _intentions_?"

Stiles scrubs his hand over his face. "I… I know myself well enough to know how this is going to go with you. If you leave now and that's it, I'll be cranky for the rest of the night, but by tomorrow morning I should be okay." He takes a deep breath. That faint golden flicker is just visible deep in his eyes. Danny couldn't look away if he tried. "If you stay the night and then tell me tomorrow that tonight was all we got—well. That would… take me a long time to get over. So. There's that."

Danny's breath comes sharper than expected. Because there's suspecting, and flirting, and even sex, and then there's _this,_ Stiles pulling his heart out of his chest and holding it out to Danny with no way know what Danny will do with it.

What can Danny do except offer the same in return? "If you had said that tonight was all we got, I would've been content with that. Not happy, but content. But if you're offering the chance at more, I will grab at that chance and hold it so tightly you'll never get it back." Stiles blinks at him, trying, Danny thinks, to parse the sentence. Admittedly, it had come out a bit convoluted. Danny laughs softly.

"What I'm saying is that I can't offer guarantees, but I want to see what we can make of this. Together."

Stiles grins, and then he's a flurry of movement, throwing himself forward and wrapping himself around Danny. He cradles the back of Danny's head and kisses him, steady and unhurried and full of promise. Danny kisses back with, he hopes, the same sentiment—and then winces. "Maybe let's see what we can make of a bed?" he asks hopefully.

Stiles laughs. He untangles himself from Danny and rises unsteadily to his feet, offering Danny a hand to help him up. "Anything you want, Danny-boy," he says quietly, not letting go of Danny's hand even when they're both fully upright.

"Yeah," Danny says. "You, too."

* * *

**9:38 PM PST**

**ME:** wow stiles was right this is boring

 **THE SWORD LADY:** isn't boyd keeping you entertained ;)

 **ME:** saint boyd is standing in line to get me a drink

 **THE SWORD LADY:** aww  
**THE SWORD LADY:** the twins are finally asleep. scott or i could come over and accuse you of ruining our lives

 **ME:** thx that's sweet 

 **ME:** but i really just want to gossip about stiles and danny  
**ME:** or make my husband take me home and get us some of what they're getting

 **THE HUSBAND:** FUCK YES

 **THE HUSBAND:** omw  
**THE HUSBAND:** right fucking now  
**THE HUSBAND:** i'm gonna be an old man before any of this shit gets interesting to me

 **THAT LAHEY KID:** don't look at me i told u to spike the punch an hour ago

 **THE PROBLEM CHILD:** isaac it's 5:30 in the morning what the fuck are you doing up?

 **THE SWORD LADY:** jackson are you texting him FROM BED?

 **ME:** lolol still no punch!

**Author's Note:**

> vintage cut-glass [tumblr](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/)


End file.
